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Tuesday, 13 December 2011

The Christmas Turkey

The Christmas Turkey

Every new farmer has to learn about farming. It's a matter of survival. Basic intelligence supports that
survival. I grew up on a farm and that
being the case; I have no excuse for ignorance.
Contrary to popular belief, ignorance is not always bliss. Sometimes it can hurt - a lot.

I always prided myself on being a good strong
farm girl, capable of handling any situation independently but pride goeth
before a fall. I learned, and quite
reluctantly, had to admit, that my strength and independence had
limitations.

One year, in lieu of payment for some service we
had provided, a neighbour gave us a
tom turkey for Thanksgiving, but since we normally did not do the big Thanksgiving
dinner deal, we decided to save him for Christmas. We put him into the chicken coop and there he
strutted proudly among the chickens, gorging himself incessantly on the
constantly available nutritious grain.
By Christmas, his already adult weight and size had almost doubled. He just forgot to stop growing!

Christmas at our house always meant lots of
relatives, friends, and neighbours so a turkey would go along way to satisfying all those hungry
appetites. A couple of days before the
big day, I informed my husband that it was time to dress Tommy for
Christmas. John got the chopping block
cleaned off, got the axe and on the way to the chicken coop, he proceeded to tell me how to aim
that axe so as not to waste all that good meat on the turkey's neck.

I was stunned. It had never
occurred to me that I would be wielding the guillotine.

"I'm not chopping his neck off!" I protested in alarm. "You do that. I'll hold him."

With his proud regal strut, and that welcoming
"gobble, gobble gobble," those beady eyes watching me with such
respect each time I brought feed or came to collect the eggs that the hens so
obligingly deposited for me, I had grown rather fond of His Majesty. Not enough to spare him his fate; mind you,
but enough to make me refuse to wield the axe on that meaty neck of his.

"Are you crazy? You'll never be able to hold him. That sucker weighs as much as you
do." John scoffed in disbelief.

I was insulted.
"I can too, hold him. I'm
strong as horse and you know it! I can
keep up with you at any farm job."

"You may be tough, but you'll
never hold that turkey." John
sneered, conviction and scorn dripping in his voice.

This whole thing was taking on a turn I had not anticipated and the
prospect of that turkey dinner was not as enticing anymore. But John’s lack of confidence in me stung to
the core! I was tough.

I was adamant - and defiant now. How dare he presume that I was such a
weakling? I'll show him!

"You wield the axe. I'll hold the turkey." I insisted doggedly.

Patiently, John tried to explain the facts of
life to me. "You don't
understand. When his head gets chopped
off, that bird's reflexes will go ballistic. He'll jerk and
jump like a yo-yo out of control. He'll
beat himself - and you - black and blue with his wings. You won't be able salvage any meat by the
time he's finished."

I had killed enough chickens to know that a bird
without a head can do two or three whole minutes of frenzied reflex dancing
before the nerves succumb. But I was a
good strong farmer and I would handle that sucker!

"I'll hold the turkey." I declared
resolutely fairly daring him to cross me.

After a few more explanations and remonstrations,
John finally sighed. "You're going
to have to hold on tight if you want to eat that bird." he warned.

"Don't you worry, I will."

We cornered the confused turkey-cum-dinner and
grabbing him in a firm arm lock, John soon had him at the chopping block. He checked once more with me if I had come to my senses but I was unyielding.

I glared stubbornly at him. With obstinate determination borne of
confidence in my own inflated ability and strength, I clamped the spindly feet
tightly between my knees and, slipping my hands along its body, I gripped the
wings firmly from beneath. Convinced I
had that bird securely trussed, I nodded to John that I was ready. He gave me a condescending look that clearly
indicated his disbelief at my lack of intelligence and pulled the neck into
just the right spot on the chopping block.
At his final pause as if to say "Last chance to change your
mind," I nodded. In resignation, he
let the guillotine drop.

I couldn't say I hadn't been warned but I must
admit I was ill prepared for the absurdity that followed. Minus a head, that turkey's adrenaline went
into overdrive and its power multiplied a thousandfold. Somehow, those spindly legs vaulted free of
my knee's stranglehold. With the force
of a charging rhino, I found myself being catapulted through space, onto my
back, onto my side, on my feet and off again, bouncing around like balloon that
had not been tied properly. The turkey
neck was rotating, spewing blood in every direction and I was now covered with
it. Occasionally, I caught a glimpse of
John helplessly trying to catch up to us but it was no use. This rocketing Tasmanian devil didn't stop long enough for
him to grab a hold. Desperately, I held
on tight, remembering
John’s warning that I would not be able to salvage any meat if I let his wings
loose. I clenched my teeth and my fists
and hung on as I had never done before. I felt myself
hurtling around like an unguided missile, frantically wishing that this
Pandemoniumwould end, that the stupid bird
would die already, because if it didn't die soon, I was certain that I would.

After an eternity, I found myself lying quietly
on my back, the crazy turkey on top of me, its now still legs pointing to the
sun, blood from its now limp neck slowly dripping down the neck of my
parka. My arms were still securely
locked around its body but they felt like quivering jelly. As a matter of fact, my whole body felt like
quivering jelly. But I hadn’t let that turkey beat
himself up. Beating me up was another
matter. I now had no strength to move. The turkey had sapped it all.
John came and lifted the turkey off me and then extended a hand to help
me up. The yard looked like a war zone with blood everywhere on
the white snow. John said nothing and
neither did I. He carried that turkey
into the house and I meekly followed him.
I went straight into the shower, parka and all.
When I finally emerged almost an hour later, I was clean but every
muscle in my body was screamed in agony.

John left the house while I was in the bathroom
washing up. He didn't come in till late
in the evening. I didn't know if he was
angry and punishing me for my stupidity or if he was killing himself laughing
out behind the shed. I honestly didn't
care. What ever it was, I was grateful
he was doing it well out of my sight and earshot. Suffering silently in pain and indignity, I
plucked the feathers off that wild Brahma-bull of a bird and by evening, I had
him safely in the cold room, gutted, clean and washed.

On Christmas day, still enduring excruciating pain in places I had never
even known I had, I dressed and cooked that turkey for the big gang that were expecting for Christmas
dinner. Everybody enjoyed it except
me. I ached too much to enjoy anything
for almost two whole weeks and it was months before my body regained its normal
fleshy tones. There are muscles in my
body that still have vivid memories of that Christmas turkey and I have never
felt so arrogant about my prowess and efficacy as a farmer since that turkey
gave me a lesson in humility.